


all the perfect drugs and superheroes

by autoluminescence



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoluminescence/pseuds/autoluminescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock guesses two alarms and failed sapphic dalliances. </p>
<p>He still doesn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the perfect drugs and superheroes

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: sleepy-but-consensual sex
> 
> Title from _Humpty Dumpty_ by Aimee Mann

Sherlock knows – that her specialty was cardio, but only after she dropped out of oncology when her twelfth patient died; that she still tries to make it to Central Park for her morning jogs, despite the hour-long subway trek; that loathes Williamsburg with all the passion of a girl from the Bronx who became a woman from the (forever-capital-C)-City – but he doesn’t know this.

The two alarms aren’t because she hates her job, and they aren’t because she hates _him_ , either (that takes different manifestations, perhaps, and she doesn’t know if there’s even a bit of truth in it anymore).

Before she left the hospital (her title, her meaning, her life, her respect, _her_ ), 5:30 am was Carrie slipping into bed, buzzing from night-shift adrenaline, shifting Joan into wakefulness with a thumb rubbing at the nape of her neck and kisses across her temple. Before, every morning was warm arms for Joan to roll into and long legs to get tangled up in, moaning and uninhibited with sleep when Carrie would press a thigh up against her until Joan’s hips slid down in tandem. It was shock of skin, everywhere, when their bodies finally fit and twisted together; sometimes, it was Carrie slipping down between Joan’s thighs to fuck in with her tongue, hot and wet and too, too much, leaving Joan’s back arching up and head tossing on the pillow and thighs twitching and trembling with the crackling intensity that was Carrie’s _everything._

Joan wakes up to darkness, now; to a cold brownstone and memories of death and misunderstandings and _don’t leave_ rattling around in her head.

She loves her job. Loves Sherlock, even, in ways that shock her with their truth.

Two alarm clocks still just barely cut it.


End file.
